


toothpaste kisses

by todareistodo



Series: have we met before? [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: i’ll be yours and you’ll be mine





	toothpaste kisses

**Author's Note:**

> toothpaste kisses by the maccabees

Your muscles feel heavy and pliant, skin warm and soft against his stomach, legs tangled together in a scribble of long limbs. Eric’s hands are wrapped loosely around your middle, fingers flexing in a strange pattern that creates an irregular rhythm against your bare ribcage. You can feel the winter sun through your eyelids, everything painted dark pink as you try to hold onto it for just a few moments longer. He murmurs in his sleep, lips working gently against the back of your neck, coarse hair of his beard dragging lightly across the top of your spine which makes you shiver and you itch to shove him away because it tickles, but his snuffling breathing is too sweet. You burrow further back into the warm, solid weight of his body, feeling the softness of his boxers against your bare skin and sigh.

 

It’s early, you’d guess, early enough that the sun is only just painting the rooftops yellow. Eric always forgets to shut the curtains and you’re always too lazy to sort it out yourself, so you always watch the morning sky, the rare times you wake up before Eric brings you a cup of tea and a playful shove out of the duvet. Your eyes are sticky with sleep, hair no doubt a mess, naked against your crisp sheets because Eric is a clean freak and refuses to keep the same bedding for longer than 3 days. You appreciate it as long as he doesn’t watch you do it, laugh at your ineptitude and completely howl when you mutter that you _still_ _can’t_ _cook_ _pasta_ , _why_ _should_   _I_ _be_ _expected_ _to_ _change_ _the_ _bedding_ : it’s the same routine every time, domesticity almost frightening in its predictability and sugarsweetness.

 

You stretch carefully, trying your best not to dislodge yourself from Eric’s loose, comfortable grip and feel your muscles ache after training and the night before, that bone-deep throb you consider normal. You sigh a little at the strain, and feel the hot exhales of Eric’s breath against your shoulders as he yawns awake.

 

“Sore, Delboy?”

 

The smirk in his voice is evident, even when you’re turned the opposite way, looking out the window at glittering frost and West London waking up.

 

“I must’ve stretched a bit too hard in training or summat. You were weak, Diet.”

 

“You can’t say that to a sick person, Del. Blame my appendix but I don’t remember hearing any complaints.”

 

Yet again, the disgustingly cheesy eyebrow waggle is just your sixth sense, your ridiculous knowledge and intuition when it comes to Eric Dier and his many quirks. He kisses your shoulder blade quietly, chin resting against your shoulder to watch the outside world with you, hands now possessively tight around your stomach, even when you’ve woken up together, for the 100th time, even when you’ll make him tea and he’ll make you breakfast and you’ll fight over who gets to record what on telly, even though he’s taken you to Portugal and you’ve brought each other matching mugs and have the same keys just with different kitschy keyrings and even though you broke a thousand driving laws getting to the hospital when you heard he was in surgery with bloody appendicitis.

 

You decide not to mention all that, and instead roll over more so his arm is wrapped around you even tighter. The telly murmurs suddenly, something easy and funny that makes Eric chuckle against your shoulder, face turned away slightly to watch.

 

“I’ve put a bet on.”

 

“You have not.”

 

You realise he’s put on last night’s Match of the Day and is listening to them joke about _you_. You hope it’s nothing particularly offensive, too sleepy still to properly tune in.

 

“I have. Dele to score first, 20/1.”

 

You whistle lowly and then giggle, pushing your face into the mattress. Eric doesn’t gamble, which makes it all the funnier, thinking of him scrolling through his phone, forehead wrinkled as he tried to comprehend what he was wasting money on.

 

“You better get back to training fucking quick, I can’t deal with you having a gambling addiction.”

 

Really, you want to say he’s ridiculous, truly stupid for betting on you but that you’re oddly warmed by the thought of him searching you out, trusting your name and skill enough, even as a joke. Always wanting to prove to you you’re _his_ , something he’s proud of.

 

“Hang on, 20/1? I’m fucking better than that!”

 

Eric sniggers and his fingertips begin to dig into your abs, nails trailing in little circles that leave you breathless with laughter. Gradually, the teasing fingers dip lower, skirting along the dip of your hips and you have to breathe through your nose. He carries on with the light touches, just his nails drifting along the naked skin of your torso, lips pressing small, sweet kisses to your shoulder, your neck, behind your ear. He follows the lines of your tattoos carefully, tracing them like a dot to dot as his teeth work at the thin skin connecting your shoulder and neck, tongue sweeping carefully to sooth the mark, all the while humming gently and laughing at the telly when something catches his attention.

 

You sigh happily and close your eyes lazily, body like honey against his, perfectly light and relaxed. When you open your eyes, you see his hand sweeping along the mess of your bedside table, pushing aside empty packets and debris, knocking against the framed photo of the two of you and a Portuguese sunset. When he finally stops ransacking, the room is bathed in the bright sunlight seeping through the window, day coming quick and life moving on. Nothing changes; nothing ever does.

 

When Eric’s hand returns, it’s slick and cool, leaving a sticky trail along the light dusting of hair underneath your belly button. When he takes you in hand, you sigh, quiet and content, pushing forward slightly to feel the wet pressure of his fist better. He shushes you, peppering kisses against your cheekbones and works you slowly, a steady rhythm that makes your breath stutter, marred with moans when he spreads the wetness dripping from the head with the tip of his thumb. Every touch is light and teasing, so slow and gentle it makes your toes curl.

 

“ _Eric_.”

 

“Dele.”

 

It’s simple, so strangely sweet, you smile momentarily, even as the cherry red tip of your cock weeps even more against Eric’s eagerly protected clean sheets. He never picks up speed; there’s no desperation, no need, even, really, just quiet desire. Even when you begin pushing your hips back against his dick, it’s all still slow and syrupy, fluid and easy. Weak sunlight and low moans, a room that’s a mess of things you still haven’t arranged, photos lining every surface that detail every moment, an unmade bed and the two of you.

 

When you come, it’s a flow of pleasure, muscles light and entirely boneless, whimpers quiet and buried into the cropped hair of Eric’s head against the side of your face. He carries on stroking you gently, come and lube making an obscene noise that makes you both giggle, but he continues trailing his fingers along your cock as you fall through the aftershocks, wave after wave.

 

“Don’t be selfish, Del.”

 

You roll your eyes and peck his temple, shuffling over a little so you can reach into his boxers, after wiping a hand against your own slowly softening cock to collect the wetness, to ease the friction as you twist your hand against the head of his. He’s even quieter than you, only soft words of encouragement punctuating the silence, hips moving in minute circles as you both watch you work quietly, your head resting on his steadily rising chest. He plays with your hair carefully, pulling slightly when you move your hand just right and he clenches his fingers in a twist of curls when he comes all over your hand and his own stomach. You giggle again, wiping your palm against his chest, earning a groan.

 

“Dele, make the tea.”

 

“Lazy fucker, get off your arse!”

 

“Remind me, who has appendicitis again?”

 

“ _Had_ appendicitis _._ Had.”

 

When he rejoins you downstairs, gracing you with a _ta_ for the tea and a kiss on the nose, you grin at him and kick his arse playfully from your seat on the kitchen counter, giggling when he swats at your calves in retaliation and spills hot tea all down his top in the process. Eric advances on you, mock furious, coming to stand between your open thighs, fingers stroking the fabric stretched over them. His kiss tastes like toothpaste, fresh and clean, tongue slow and lazy against yours.

 

“I cancelled my bet. Tenner on Harry Kane, 3/1.”

 

You groan and flick the tip of his nose with a silly grin

**Author's Note:**

> it’s becoming kinda therapeutic writing disgustingly lovey dovey stuff abt eric n dele but i kinda like this massively unrealistic romanticised parallel universe  
> we are choosing to ignore!! the fact that dele is injured :)  
> feedback welcomed happy holidays!


End file.
